


Regrets

by hlwim



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, F/M, Family, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 18:10:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hlwim/pseuds/hlwim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after Ishval, after that one last night, after Roy burned a part of her and himself away, Riza finds him again.  AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regrets

**Regrets**  


“Roy! Roy!”

Hughes unbends from examining the neatly-arranged sunflowers, shielding his eyes with one long hand.

“An admirer?” he says, grinning wide. “I didn't think you'd been in Central long enough to gain a _following_ , Colonel.”

“It's probably someone else,” Roy grimaces, as the shouts echo down the cluttered street. The voice holds a tinge of familiarity, but he dismisses it as just the name. He always thinks he must know everyone who knows his name.

Hughes claps him on the shoulder, and they carry on, tipping a pair of mock salutes to the elderly woman behind the flower cart, earning a weedy chuckle.

“Roy!”

They step into the street to let a delivery boy sprint past, whistling. The street is darkly bright—the height of the buildings on either side obscures the sun but for a blinding strip at either intersection. They're a few miles west of Central Command, deep in the middle class market district, jostled on all sides by lunchtime shoppers.

“ _Roy_! Wait!”

The voice takes on a note of panic—on instinct, Roy looks around, trying to find the source. But the crowd is a sea of blurring murmurs, and Hughes is tugging at his elbow to move on.

“We should bring something back for Armstrong,” Hughes says.

“Stuck babysitting Fullmetal again,” Roy snorts. “At least it's not us.”

“It's wonderful to see two brothers who care so much about each other.”

“Yeah, sure,” Roy scoffs. A bread truck parts the crowd in passing, leaving an uneven empty line in the middle of the street. Roy sees a flash of bright blue—a child's jacket—just before something soft and small throws itself into his kneecaps.

“Hey, there, fella,” Hughes says, picking the little boy up and setting him back on his unsure feet. “Gotta watch where you're going.”

“Are you okay?” Roy asks, kneeling down to check for himself.

He's small—three years old, maybe four—with large brown eyes and a mop of black hair barely contained by the edges of his blue cap. A matching coat is buttoned to his neck, and red mittens dangle from each sleeve by a thin strip of yarn. His pants are a little dirty from the fall but sharply creased, and his shoes shine bright with new polish. He stares up at Roy in awed silence.

“Did you bump your head?” Roy prompts, gently brushing dust from the kid's shoulders. He shakes his head. “Any bruises?”

“Yes,” the kid whispers. “On my knee. But that's from the train.”

“Train?” Roy repeats, and the kid nods. “So you're visiting?”

Again, a quick nod.

“Okay. Are your parents around here?”

“Roy!”

He'd almost forgotten the shouting, but this one is suddenly much closer—and the kid's head snaps around. He lifts an arm and waves, mitten whipping around in the cool air.

“Here, Mama!” he laughs. “You found me!”

A woman pushes through the crowd to reach them, and before he sees the twisted bun of blonde hair, before she speaks again, before she looks up and meets his eyes, Roy knows exactly who she is.

“How many times did I tell you, Roy? Don't run off from Mama like that—this is _Central—_ a lot of bad people just waiting to snatch naughty little boys from—”

And then it happens. She stops dead on seeing him, kneeling beside what he recognizes now as his mirror image in miniature.

“Riza?” Hughes asks with a bark of laughter. “Riza Hawkeye, is that _you_?”

The kid— _Roy_ , he realizes, feeling a spike of pain somewhere around his heart—ducks out from beneath his hand and runs right to Riza, grabbing the hem of her long jacket. Roy manages to stand, slowly, numb.

“Captain Hughes,” Riza breathes, unable to break the stare either. “It—it's good to see you.”

“Actually, it's Lieutenant Colonel now, but don't worry about that. Gosh, Riza, how long has it _been_?”

“Five years,” Roy says quietly. Hughes, apparently, hasn't quite put the pieces together—he bends down to smile at the kid, who ducks behind Riza's leg.

“And who's this little scamp? He just had a run-in with the colonel, but no harm done, right?”

“My son,” Riza says. She struggles to continue, and Roy feels sick, chest tight. “He was named for his father.”

In any other context, he might laugh to see Hughes finally rendered speechless, head swiveling back and forth between them, that ever-moving mouth hanging open and empty.

Roy can't think of a single thing to say. His mind is utterly blank—seconds ago tipping towards the pain of buried old memory, now contained in perfect stillness. Something deep in his gut stirs and pushes up towards his throat. It's only when he clenches both fists that he realizes what it is.

Anger.

“We're going to be late getting back,” Roy snaps to Hughes, and then turns sharply on his heel and walks away.

His heart pounds in time with each step, and his vision fogs—he moves only on force of habit, barely dodging collision. Hughes doesn't catch up to him until the East Gate, coming off a run and out of breath.

“Roy—”

“Don't.”

But the faster he walks, the more Hughes jogs to keep up.

“Look, I know what just happened is a lot to take in—”

“We're not discussing it.”

They skid around a corner, and he takes the steps two at a time, weaving through the building's light traffic. Hughes catches him just at the threshold of his office, grabbing a fistful of Roy's jacket and holding firm.

“You can't run from this, Roy.”

“And why not?” Roy snarls. “That's what _she_ did!”

“Look, Roy, you're my best friend, but right now, you're being an idiot.”

He has a good retort, but it gets lost somewhere in a barrage of angry swearing. Hughes just shakes his head and pulls a small white card from his chest pocket.

“She's staying with some friends in the northern quarter. She'll be here a while, and she wants to see you. I'm not saying you have to go, and if you tell me you don't want to, then I promise I won't bug you again. But I can tell you, if you don't go—if you don't just hear her out, well—”

Hughes smiles, a little sadly.

“You'll regret it, Roy.”

He feels sucker-punched, and accepts the card weakly. With a firm, friendly pressure on Roy's shoulder, Hughes nods and heads back to his own office.

There's still work to do, so Roy sets the card on the corner of his desk and tries to forget that it exists. A phone number and address, scrawled hastily by a shaking hand, smudged where it passed from her fingers to Hughes. Roy recognizes the street—he can't think of anyone he knows who lives there, but it's a decent enough place, rows of tall apartment buildings, stacked like uneven books on a bowed shelf.

It's a distraction, and he knows it, but he can't shake himself free of the memories. Ishval—everything in his life, it seems, begins and ends within the confines of those painful years, that empty landscape. Riza, broken at the graveside of some anonymous orphan, and the comfort they had taken from each other that last night. She had asked him an impossible thing, and he had done it, sick with himself afterward, scrubbing his hands until the skin cracked and bled. The last time he saw her was the back of a field ambulance, eyes closed and face tight in pain, with a faint smile curving her lips.

She looked so different in the market. Of course, it's been nearly five years, but more than age has changed her. Where her son— _his son_ intrudes but Roy pushes that back—wore clothes neat and new, Riza's jacket looked worn at the elbows and shoulders, carefully cared for but years in constant use. Her hair looked so long, enough to spiral out from the messy gathering at the back of her neck, and a fringe all but covering the left half of her face. Her cheeks, though still sharp, looked softer, and her eyes were bright and heavy.

He is furious with her—furious that she asked him, that she left, that she disappeared, that she's back now, furious that everything he worked so hard to bury has returned, strong and terrifying as ever, constricting like a serpent around his heart.

The last meeting of the day is with the Elric brothers, but Roy's still drifting, miles away.

“Colonel, are you okay?”

His head snaps around to Alphonse, that timid voice rising tinny from the armor's depths. Fullmetal is scowling and slouched in his chair, always so sensitive to the smallest slight.

“I'm fine,” Roy says tightly.

He dismisses them to write reports or research or whatever it was they needed, and then through his narrow office window, watches the rest of the building's occupants filter out. The last cadet snaps the cover back onto her typewriter and waves on her way past his door. When he's mostly certain the floor is empty—Hughes will be busy forcing hospitality on the Elrics—Roy digs into the deepest drawer of his desk, scraping the dark corners for that unopened bottle.

The day Roy was promoted to Central, Grumman had presented him with a bottle of 15-year-old Aerugian whiskey—damn near impossible to find and illegal as hell. But Grumman had always had something of a special affection for Roy. While he was off searching for Riza, Grumman waited back in East City, and when Roy failed, returning empty-handed and choked with defeat, Grumman had no admonishment—only a pained empathy.

Roy wrenches the bottle open and takes an indecent gulp—wondering if Grumman knows, or if he himself is the lucky first contact. His gaze falls across the card, and he props it up against the phone, glaring the numbers into obscurity.

After the first quarter of the bottle, he gets up, extinguishing the lamps and closing the door. He paces a little, to steady himself. Another quarter, and he's ready to admit the anger might mostly be a mask for hurt—there's a certain sharp humiliation in having to ask _why wasn't I enough_ , but he can't stand not knowing.

He fumbles with the dial, squinting to read the numbers by dim moonlight.

“Catalina residence,” a wheezy woman sighs, after a few piercing rings. Roy is struck momentarily dumb, wondering if he'd managed to dial right.

“I'm,” he says, and his voice sounds rougher than he thought, “I'm looking for Riza Hawkeye.”

“Oh, of course.”

He hears the tap as she sets the receiver down and the echo of footsteps.

“Riza, dear! Telephone!”

For too long, the only thing Roy can hear is his own ragged breathing, but then footsteps return, and there's a rustle of cloth and then—

“Hello?”

“Riza,” he rasps. “It's me.”

There's a sharp intake of breath—either from her or from him, but Roy's trying too hard to keep a grip on the phone to puzzle it out.

“I didn't think you'd call so soon.”

“Yeah, well, I don't run from things.”

He imagines a look of hurt splashed across her face and quickly dismisses it, feeling queasy.

“Look, I thought we could talk,” he sighs.

He's too drunk for a long conversation, so they arrange to meet the following day, at a cafe Roy only remembers for its blazing green awnings and narrow tables. All next morning Hughes pesters him, face split wide with that damn grin—it's a pain to shake him off at the gate, to dodge Fullmetal and Armstrong and the Fuhrer, and catch a streetcar heading north.

He gets off a stop too early but doesn't mind the extra walk—since the moment he hung up the phone and stumbled back to his empty apartment last night, he'd been considering tactics, without progress. What she might say, what he'll say back—he should be running scenarios, prepared for any attack, but the scenario, the daydream, the _fantasy_ always ends the moment Riza looks up and says hello.

He reaches the cafe's front door unexpectedly soon and simply stares through the smoky glass, stomach twisting in on itself.

She is sitting at a table against the wall, facing away from the door, thin hands bringing a small teacup to her lips. She left her hair down and tucked behind her right ear, and the end just brushes the small of her back. A thick turtleneck, a long skirt, tall boots with her ankles crossed and tucked beneath the chair. The noontime sun hits her perfect—she is glowing warm, a flame flickering with each tiny movement.

He thinks about throwing up in the flower-box near his feet, but a little cough behind interrupts his stalling.

“Excuse me, young man, but are you going in?”

An elderly couple smiles up at him.

“Yes, of course,” Roy says, pushing the door open for them. “I'm so sorry—I was lost in thought.”

A softly-tinkling bell announces the entrance, but no one looks up. The elderly couple smile at him on their way to the counter, as Roy breathes deep and then forces himself to cross the floor.

Riza looks up when he reaches the table and speaks first.

“I saw you coming down the street,” she says, as Roy sits. “I switched to the seat facing away from the door, in case you...in case you changed your mind. I thought you deserved the chance to leave, if you wanted.”

She already has a cup waiting for him and, with steady hands, pours.

“Thank you for—for coming. Hughes said you'd come, but I knew it would be a long shot.”

A deep breath of her own, as she sets the pot down again.

“There are a lot of things I want to say to you, but—I know there's probably a lot you want to say to me.”

And then she's quiet, hands back around her own cup, eyes wide. She looks—she looks _scared_.

For a long while, Roy can only stare back. Yes, _of course_ , there's so much he wants to say—so much he's thinking and feeling he could never imagine putting into words. He opens his mouth a few times as though about to start, but nothing comes. Riza sips her tea and watches him, shoulders hunched up.

“I looked for you,” he whispers, surprising himself with the sound. He looks down at his tea—cool now. “Everywhere. I went to the field hospital, and they said you'd been discharged from the military and sent to East City. I went to East City, and they said you just walked out. I went to your father's house, his grave, your grandfather—I went to the Academy, I _begged_ Hughes to show me your personnel file, just in case there was some hint of where you'd gone. But there was never anything. I looked _everywhere_. And I couldn't find you.”

He looks up, but she's looked away—gaze focused outside.

“I didn't want to be found,” she says softly. “Not by you. Not by anyone. I just wanted to disappear. After everything I'd done—all the people I killed. When they told me I was pregnant, I just went numb. I didn't believe it until they put him in my arms.”

Her face shifts to a soft little smile, and her voice takes on a dreamy cast.

“He was so beautiful when he was born. A big mop of black hair, and the darkest eyes I'd ever seen—he looks just like you. It scared me, how much I loved him, _instantly_ , and how much it reminded me that I still loved you.”

His grip tightens, fingers squeaking on the porcelain. Riza turns back.

“I'm sorry. Roy, I'm _so_ sorry. I had no right to keep him from you. I was selfish, and stupid, and I just wanted to lose myself and everything I'd done. I'm not proud. I know I hurt you, and I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. I won't ask for it—I just...”

“Why now?” Roy asks hoarsely. “Why come back _now_ , after everything—after all this time? Do you—do you want _money_?”

“What? No!”

She flushes, dropping the cup too high. The clatter turns a few heads, but they quickly turn back to their own tables.

“I wouldn't—I'm not—”

“I'm sorry,” Roy says. “That was cruel. I didn't—I know you can take care of yourself.”

Her hands are shaking. He can see the tremble in her fingers, curled so loosely against her palm, gently resting near the table's edge. He's gripped by the impulse to take her hand in his, to feel the unfamiliar weight and make it familiar once more, to welcome her back with no reservations, to forgive absolutely everything—because he's forgotten. He's forgotten the shape and smell of her, the smooth softness of her skin beneath his fingers, the little hitch of her voice—and now he remembers, as clear as the day they met, back when they were both still children in so many ways.

“He wants to know you,” Riza says, and her voice is anything but steady now. “He's old enough now to know there's something missing, and I didn't want to lie to him.”

“Does he...does he know who I am?”

“He knows your name. Knows that you were my father's apprentice and that we were in the military together. He doesn't—he doesn't know what you look like. I never had a picture.”

It is like watching a pane of glass splinter under unwavering pressure: she'd been planning as well, it seems, and now all her careful tactics have failed her. She seems so small.

“Can I see him?” Roy asks.

She reaches for a bag tucked against the wall, producing a wallet of photos.

“The people I'm staying with—they took him out for the day, work out some energy at the park. He didn't take to travel so well.”

“I was on trains at that age,” Roy says. “You get bored pretty quick.”

In answer to his unasked question, Riza sets a nursery picture at the top of the pile.

“He was born at the end of January. A little early. So he's just turned four.”

In the photo, he is mid-squall, tiny mouth round and wide, eyes pinched, one blurry fist worked free of the swaddling. Touching just the edge, Roy slides the photo closer and peers down, unable to speak.

Roy calls Central after they leave the cafe, a few hours later, and tells his secretary that he's taking the day—the Elrics can wait. Everything can wait.

Riza watches him from the corner, shivering slightly. It's evening now, the sun dipping far below the building-tops. When the mist starts up, she opens an umbrella that they share in silence. The streetcar arrives packed, and they stand together, holding tight to the over-rail. Without even a thought, Roy puts a steadying arm around her waist.

The Catalina apartment is exactly where he thought it would be—third floor of the third building on the third block, with overgrown daisies smiling out of each window flower-box and shutters half-closed. Riza takes him through the back, fishing a borrowed key from her pocket. Through the narrow door is a cramped kitchen and an archway to an even more narrow hall.

“Riza dear, is that you?”

A woman's voice—same as the woman who answered last night—precedes the woman herself: old, plump, and short, composed mostly of wrinkles and held together by a glittering, beaded shawl.

“This is Roy Mustang, Ettie,” Riza says. “Roy, Ettie Catalina.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma'am,” Roy says quietly, compelled by some instinct to match their volume. Ettie sweeps a critical eye from head to toe and then turns to Riza.

“Is he staying for dinner?”

“Oh,” Riza whispers, glancing quickly to Roy, “I don't know if—”

“I'd love to,” Roy cuts in. “If you'd have me.”

Ettie quirks an eyebrow and nods, producing a short pipe from beneath her shawl and clamping it between her lips.

“Well, he's down for the night, poor dear,” she says, addressing Riza again. “Be quiet on the stairs, would you?”

With a hand on his sleeve, Riza leads him through the charming disorder to a staircase with thin rails and steep steps. The second floor is less overbearing: darkness lends some sense of space. Roy follows Riza to the front room, separated from the hall by a hastily-tacked curtain which she pulls aside.

The kid—his _son_ , Roy thinks again—is curled in sleep around a worn stuffed rabbit, chin tucked to his chest and an arm slung across his face. He has the chin, and the hair, and those Mustang cheekbones, but the eyes Roy saw in the market were all Riza. The little pink shell of his ear looks impossibly delicate, and his hands are less than half the size of Roy's—Roy feels suddenly overlarge and stops just short of touching his face.

“You won't break him,” Riza whispers. “It's okay.”

He is warm, and Roy can feel the thready pulse twitching through his temple. His hair is still baby-fine but thick, falling haphazardly across his scalp. The line of his lashes is sharp and long against the swell of his cheek.

With a little fluttery sigh, he shifts, and Roy jumps back, afraid to have woken him. But he just draws the rabbit further in. Roy glances back to Riza, but she has hidden her face behind the curtain's edge.

Dinner is an adult affair—just Ettie, Riza, Roy, and Ettie's husband Sergio, an absolute tank of a man who looms over the table, arms crossed and head ringed with pipe-smoke.

“So, Mustang,” he booms. “Military man?”

“Yes, sir,” Roy replies quickly, almost wishing he had his enlistment papers to prove it. “State alchemist. I'm a colonel.”

Sergio grunts. Across the table, Riza tips the entire glassful of wine back and then quickly refills.

“Good pay?” Ettie asks.

“Y-yes, I suppose, ma'am. I was recently transferred to Central Command.”

“Oh? From where?”

“East City. I was under General Grumman's command. Now I work directly for the Fuhrer.”

“Good man, Grumman.”

“Yes, he is.”

Riza's apologetic face softens with each sip of wine, and Roy can't help smiling. He passes muster sometime around coffee and dessert, as Sergio simply nods, offers Roy a glass of brandy, and then rises from the table and wanders off.

“Ought to get little Roy up for a bit,” Ettie advises. “Else he'll be difficult for you in the morning. You remember we're going out?”

“Yes, Ettie,” Riza says, and Roy stands with her.

“Go on, girl, I've got the dishes.”

Riza walks him out the back, and they pause a moment on the dark stoop.

“I'm sorry about all that,” she says, hugging herself in the cold. “They took care of me the last few years—they're very protective.”

“It's alright,” Roy says, a step below and smiling up at her. “I'm just glad to know you weren't alone in this.”

Despite the bizarreness of the day, he's reluctant to let it end, sheltering beneath the roof eave as rain pours behind him.

“Listen, Riza...”

He answers the impulse at least, leaning in and taking her hand in his. She doesn't pull away.

“I don't know if you're doing anything tomorrow, but it's my day off, and I thought maybe...maybe I could take the two of you around the city. Just, you know. Spend some time together?”

“I'd like that,” Riza says. “I know he would, too.”

He comes to pick them up the next day at noon—it takes him forever to find civilian clothes casual enough, to find a hat and gloves and overcoat, to get the car out and filled up and finally across the city. He brings a blanket, just in case.

They're standing together outside the Catalinas' building. Riza has a firm grip on the kid's shoulder, holding him to the curb, and they're both dressed for the lingering cold.

“This man is Roy Mustang,” Riza says, as Roy steps out.

“But that's _my_ name.”

“Yes, it is,” she smiles. “Who were you named after?”

“Daddy.”

“That's right.”

The kid looks back and forth between the adults, considering.

“Was he named after Daddy, too?”

“No, he _is_ Daddy.”

He looks Roy over with tiny critical eyes, red-mittened hands clasped in front of him. It's a little uncomfortable, being so unabashedly judged by a child, but Roy stands still, with a half-smile, while Riza watches in silence.

“Is that your car?” he finally asks, pointing over Roy's shoulder.

“Do you like it?”

Riza lets go, so he can run a few laps around it, poking at the tires and running boards.

“Most people are still using horses in the country,” she says, as Roy joins her on the sidewalk. “He has no concept of the city—he'll run off with anyone friendly enough.”

“You sure staying in the city's the right choice?”

Riza shrugs.

“There really weren't children his age to play with,” she says, breath coming in flowery little puffs. She steals a short side-glance at him. “And I thought it would be easier, for you.”

They pack into the front seat together—the kid wants to sit next to _Daddy_ , and it's a little overwhelming to think of himself with that new title. Roy pulls away from the curb carefully.

“I thought we'd have lunch at this nice little place by Central Command. Then if it's not too cold, maybe we could walk around the Memorial Gardens? There's this market they set up inside sometimes...”

He trails off, shrugging, sneaking a glance to the side at the little body bouncing excitedly in place and Riza's still-nervous smile beaming above his head.

It's a little shocking how much food such a small body can pack away—but his thoughts flit to Fullmetal, and Roy just watches, bemused, as Riza picks at her own plate. The restaurant is packed with similar stories: young families out with small children, elderly couples taking the air, and little groups of tourists huddled around maps. A few smiles drift towards their table—and Roy imagines it from the outside, two young parents and their boisterous little boy, happily chattering away about everything he's seen and wants to do.

“Save some room for dinner, okay?” Roy says. “We might go visit one of my friends.”

Although he wants another ride in the car, Roy manages to convince the kid to settle for a ride on his shoulders.

“Hold tight, okay?” he says, and those little arms and legs clamp down. “Just go easy on the hair, huh?”

Riza trails behind a bit, and Roy turns back with a questioning look.

“C'mon, Mama!”

“I'm sorry,” she says quietly, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow as they step into the street. “I guess I'm still waiting to wake up.”

“Look, I don't know where this is going either,” Roy replies. “Let's just have fun for today, okay? Figure the rest out as we go.”

The stalls set out today are mostly country craftspeople: rugs and sturdy wood furniture, hard maple candies and soaps that smell like summer morning. Roy lets the kid hold his wallet, buying him a tiny toy lion and some candy— _for later_ , Riza intones, sliding the purple-and-silver package deep into her bag. She spends a little longer at one stall, running her hands through a pile of bright embroidered scarves.

“See anything you like?” Roy asks, as the kid stretches, trying to reach the lamppost arm high above.

“Oh, no, I'm fine,” Riza says. Behind her, the old woman attending the stall deliberately spreads out a blue-gold piece.

“That one,” Roy says, nodding. “Hey kid, give me the money. It's your mom's turn for a treat.”

She protests, but the old woman takes Roy's money and hands the scarf up to the kid, who inelegantly drapes it around Riza's neck.

“You look pretty, Mama,” he says, as Riza adjusts the length.

“It suits you,” Roy agrees. With the same nervous smile she started the day with, Riza slides her hand into the fold of his elbow. They turn around as one to start back towards the exit.

“Metal man! Metal man!”

Roy grabs onto the kid's ankles at the last second—he squirms around, pointing and shouting.

“What are you talking about?” Riza asks, looking around, but they're spotted first.

“Colonel? Is that you?”

Alphonse clanks across the lawn, drawing some stares and giggles, as Fullmetal trudges along in his wake.

“Hi, Colonel,” Alphonse says, waving. “Wow, it's so weird seeing you out of uniform!”

“He's gotta wash it as some point,” Fullmetal mutters, which Roy ignores.

“I thought you boys were headed out of town.”

“Delayed,” Fullmetal pouts. “The tracks froze over.”

“Well, do me a favor and stay out of trouble, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Alphonse is staring up above his head, where Roy can feel the kid hunched up, bony little chin resting on the crown of his scalp.

“Metal man,” he whispers, awed.

“These are the Elric brothers,” Roy says. “Edward and Alphonse. Fullmetal here is the youngest State Alchemist on record.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Riza says, extending her free hand which both brothers shake politely.

“Boys, this is Riza—”

Roy hesitates for only a second and then playfully bounces his shoulders, earning a squeal of laughter from above.

“And our son, Roy.”

“Wow, really?” Al says, always the sincere counterpoint to Fullmetal's scowl. “Your wife is so pretty. We didn't even know you _had_ a family.”

“In fairness to the colonel,” Riza cuts in, sounding amused, “neither did he. We're not married.”

Fullmetal laughs, tugging at his brother's arm.

“C'mon, Al, let's go before you stick that big metal foot any further in your mouth.”

“Oh, I didn't mean any—”

But Fullmetal's already dragging him away.

“Bye, Colonel!” Al shouts, waving. “It was really nice to meet you, Miss Riza!”

“Stay out of trouble!” Roy shouts back, and the kid joins in, “Bye, Metal Man!”

Chaos quieted, Roy looks around a moment.

“Maybe we should get inside somewhere,” he says. “Before I'm spotted again.”

They narrowly dodge Major Armstrong on the way back to the car—Roy pretends to see something down a side-street and circles around.

While Riza and the kid wait in the warming car, blanket over their laps, Roy hunts out a phone and calls.

“Are you kidding?” Hughes practically shrieks. “Yes, absolutely, Gracia and I would just _love_ to have you guys over! We'll put on a roast!”

“Please don't go to any trouble,” Roy sighs, knowing his protest is pointless. “We'll see you in about half an hour.”

Hughes lives in the west quarter, in an apartment much larger than Roy had ever considered—but now he looks up and down the street and sees a lease sign. It's a little close for his sanity to handle, but Roy takes note of the number posted in the office window.

They let the kid hit the buzzer—he has to jump to reach—and then Hughes is welcoming them personally, apron and all. Gracia, the calm behind Hughes's storm, takes their coats and kisses Roy's cheek in greeting.

“It's been a while, Colonel,” she says.

“Can you really blame me?” he mutters, and she laughs. Elicia comes careening around the corner in a flurry of ruffles and excited screaming.

“Uncle Roy! Uncle Roy!”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Roy says. “I've got some new people for you to meet.”

She spots the newcomers and dashes behind her father's knee, peering out with suspicion.

“This is Riza Hawkeye,” Roy says, and Gracia steps forward to shake her hand.

“Maes said you served in the war together.”

“I seem to remember hearing an awful lot about the letters you wrote to him,” Riza replies with a smile.

“And this strapping young man I met the other day,” Hughes says, crouching and drawing Elicia out in front. “Sweetheart, say hi to little Roy.”

“Say hello to Elicia,” Roy encourages, nudging the kid forward. Grudgingly, they greet each other and then retreat, to the laughter of their parents.

Dinner is long and exhausting for all—after a piece of maple candy each, the kids pass out on the living room floor, while Riza joins Gracia in the kitchen and Hughes opens a bottle of nice brandy.

“We'll have to arrange a marriage,” Hughes says, handing Roy a glass and sitting in the armchair opposite.

“Let's not go thinking too far ahead,” Roy sighs, breathing deep. Hughes laughs quietly, and Roy settles back, closing his eyes.

“This is the happiest I've seen you, Roy,” Hughes says. “I think as long as I've known you.”

Roy makes a non-committal noise and keeps his eyes shut, a little afraid to voice whatever he's feeling. It's all compressed now—the long, odd series of hours from that first moment of pain in the marketplace all the way to now, to the warmth of his best friend's living room and the quiet murmur of pleasant voices just beyond the door.

“So, Colonel,” Hughes says, “any regrets?”

Roy opens his eyes and looks down to the sleeping pair—at his son curled up on the hearth rug, arms crossed over his face.

“Ask me again in a few years,” he replies.

“What are you boys talking about?” Gracia asks, as she and Riza wander back in with half-glasses of wine.

“Oh, nothing,” Hughes sighs, pulling her into his lap. Riza stands at Roy's side, and their eyes meet mid-roll, as Hughes and Gracia nuzzle each other, oblivious.

“We'd better get going,” Riza says. “I don't want Ettie to worry.”

“Or Sergio to come looking for me,” Roy agrees, rising. “Thanks, Hughes. I'll see you at work.”

The kid's only concession is wrapping his arms around Roy's neck—he whimpers a slight protest as Roy pulls him up from the floor and holds him close, but he sleeps soundly in the car, wrapped in the blanket and sideways across the backseat. Riza watches him, half-turned in her own seat, and Roy drives slow and careful.

The Catalinas' building looms large when they pull up, streetlamps radiating the promise of waiting warmth.

“C'mon,” Roy says gently, and the kid is boneless as Roy lifts him up, cradling him close.

“Sleepy,” he murmurs, as they mount the back steps.

“We're almost there,” Roy says.

The apartment is dark, and Riza leads the way to their room, where Roy gently sets the kid down and helps Riza pull off his shoes.

“He can sleep in his clothes,” she sighs. “I probably will, too.”

“Sorry,” Roy chuckles, pulling up the blanket. “I didn't expect him to keep us there that long. Though, I guess I should've.”

He pauses just a moment, hand over the kid's head, and then he leans down and kisses his temple.

“Good night,” he whispers.

“Good night, Daddy,” comes the muffled response.

Yawning, Riza escorts him back outside, and they end the night the same as last night—steps apart, sheltered beneath the roof's eave, staring at each other in half-light.

Roy smiles, and Riza smiles back: this is not starting over, but continuing. That nameless confusion he'd felt—not even understanding that it _was_ confusion, just a quiet hum within his chest—ever since the market, ever since he saw her face again, is given sudden voice.

_Yes,_ he thinks, _we're picking up what we couldn't leave behind._

“Well, good night,” Riza says.

She starts back for the door, but Roy reaches out and takes her hand.

“Good night,” he says, and kisses her cheek.

The drive home is warm and quiet, and for the first time in five years, Roy doesn't look back.


End file.
